Social Rank: 9
Concept: Punitive Pugilist
Fealty: Crownsworn
Family: Ulbran
Gender: male
Marital Status: widowed
Age: 50
Birthday: 1/4
Religion: Pantheon
Vocation: Commoner
Height: tall
Hair Color: salt & pepper
Eye Color: pale blue
Skintone: pallid

Description: Seasons of experience and a hard life wear themselves proudly on this man's brow and scarred skin. He was handsome in his prime, that much is certain, but youth's bloom has faded to a rugged appearance made all the more sharp by his tenured sneer. Muscle looms in his towering frame, formed in the bulk earned only by trade and not a vanity of exercise. His skin is of a pallid complexion, made all the more unsettling by his glacial glare. Salt and pepper hair is kept closely shorn at the sides, with length allowed only at the crown.

Personality: Wagner is a man of few words and even fewer smiles. A life in the Lowers does a number on all who pass through it, and he has thrived with a hardened disposition that frustrates even the more difficult of his peers. Sarcasm is his mother tongue, cruelty his second. While blunt, he is not without his tact. Every barb has its place, and he saves those he cares for (or has a use for presently) from the brunt of it.

Background: Wagner's origins and beginnings, how he ended up in the Ulbran family, are questionable at best. Some claim he is adopted whereas others assure he is blooded. The only true certainty is that he has been around for decades, seeing the rise and fall of many an Ulbran. Some call him Uncle or cousin if they so choose, but all agree it is a moot point as to his nature of relation and that the man is here to stay. He has never angled for a position of leadership within the family, seeking instead to be the strong arms and shoulders when particular needs arise.

In the prime of his youth he had married, siring at least two sons that are currently off gallivanting somewhere within the Compact. Their mother died sadly a few years back, leaving the already surly man to find even less reason to humor whatever semblance of patience was left in him.

The man has no distinct trade, save for the promise of arranged fights and those wishing to place bets on prideful pugilists. There was a time when he humored becoming a Champion, but the notion was gone with the next morning's hangover. His reputation has instead come to be built on the odd jobs, and the alarming strength and speed he finished them all with, completed over the years. His work ethic is undeniable once coin greases his palm, but what moral code and manner by which he chooses his jobs is his alone.